


Citra Goes to Therapy

by manthem



Series: Woman Culture [1]
Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Citra goes to therapy, its ptsd time baybey !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-21 23:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manthem/pseuds/manthem
Summary: A man and a woman lived together. On one evening he did not come back from work, and she waited. She kept on waiting and she grew littler and littler. Later, a neighbor stopped by out of friendship and there she found her, in the armchair, the size of a pea.
Series: Woman Culture [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549411
Kudos: 1





	Citra Goes to Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey this took a long time to write but I wrote it all the same
> 
> Content warnings for: child abuse, interfamilial abuse dynamics, poor coping mechanisms, verbosity
> 
> Summary is 'She Lost It' by Louise Bourgeois
> 
> Ambient Soundtrack for your Listening Pleasure: youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5P_WNsytvDLRN6r8-RJFt9i0qV0Bf6db

Two women sit in a pale green-painted office, the elder of them in an office chair, the younger on a lime green couch. Soft, early afternoon light streams through twin, north-facing windows and reflects off a blue vase holding calla lilies. The flowers stand on a small table holding a box of tissues and a small woven basket of candy and snack bars. The younger is wearing a long, muted brown skirt, soft and flowy. Her blouse is a loose cream button-up over an olive camisole. Her hair has been shaved into a mohawk and otherwise grown long, now pinned flat against her head and separated into thin braids at her nape. She wears heavy jewellery at her ears, neck, wrists, and ankles; reflecting gold against her cheeks, cascading down her chest, ribboning up her forearms, jingling when it strikes against the straps of her leather sandals. She’s holding a blue pillow in her lap, shielding her stomach. 

“Good afternoon,” says the elder, as amicably as she always has. The younger’s referral had come from a hospital, and stated a taciturn and suspicious nature. 

“...Hello,” the younger replies, beginning to pick at the ends of her braids as they’ve fallen over her shoulder. She has not made eye contact since her name was called. 

“Would you like me to call you Citra or Miss Talugmai?” the elder inquires.

“You may call me Citra,” she replies softly, and finally looks up. Eyes like glass windows, reflective like a cats.

“Citra. That’s a very beautiful name,” the elder offers.

“Thank you,” Citra murmurs back. 

“May I ask what it means?” the elder inquires.

“It means bright,” she replies, with a clearer voice, and narrowed eyes.

“In what language?”

“Indonesian”

“Are you Indonesian?”

“My father is”

“And did he name you?”

“No”

“May I ask who did then?”

“My mother named me and my brother”

“Ah, I see. Your brother, what is his name?”

“His name is Vaas. It’s not the one our mother gave him. He changed it when he was a teenager.” When she speaks of her brother her tone becomes clipped and breathier, slightly rushed, as though she’s pushing the words out through a barrier.

The elder pauses to take a few notes. “And his name would be Vaas Talugmai, then?”

“Montenegro”

“Pardon?” The elder looks up in surprise.

“Montenegro was our mother’s maiden name. He took it” Citra lifts her head to say this, but turns it to look out the window. 

“Why not Talugmai?” the elder asks, trying for her gentlest tone.

“He didn’t like our father”

“Ah, I see. And do you disagree?”

“Not really”

“But you kept his name?”

“Yes”

“Why?”

“I owed it. I took his place,” Citra replies in a flat tone. She picks at her cuticle absent-mindedly. 

“Is your brother very much younger than you?” the elder wonders.

“No. He’s a year older”

“Hmm. Usually the eldest inherits first, eldest sons especially”

“Yes” 

“But he didn’t like your father. Or he didn’t like what he did?”

“Both”

“Did you like what he did?”

“I’m… not sure”

“But you took his place. Do you maintain his position in the community?”

“Yes”

“Have you for very long?”

“Yes”

“Can you tell me what it is you do? You don’t have to, I would just like to know, for the file” 

Citra pauses for quite a few moments after that. She’s difficult to read. Her quiets could indicate deciding what to say, how to say it, if to say it at all. “I’m our religious leader”

“Like a church? Are you a female pastor?”

“Something like that. We are not Christian. Or I am not. Vaas may be”

“I was raised Catholic, will that be a problem?” The elder asks.

“So was I”

This brings the elder momentary pause. “Did you convert?”

“No. There was nothing to convert,” she replies in a clipped, quiet tone, as though suddenly very tired.

The elder takes a few notes. “Do you still speak to your parents?”

“No. They’re both dead”

A soft gasp, “I’m so sorry”

Citra shrugs, “you didn’t kill them”

This brings the elder pause. “Still a terrible thing to endure so young”

“Mmm… I guess,” is spoken as though genuinely considering.

“Do you speak to your brother then?”

“No. Not in a long time”

“Hmm,” the elder makes a note to return to the brother. “May I ask how your parents passed?”

“My mother was killed when I was fourteen. I am not sure how. I don’t remember it well,” spoken again in a rushed tone. Before she can continue the elder interrupts.

“We don’t have to speak about this if it’s too much, really”

“It was just very strange and painful. I didn’t believe them when they told me she was dead. And we weren’t allowed to see the body after. It was… I don’t know. Not real. She was really killed, I know that. I don’t know how. Which is worse, maybe. I imagine. Vaas said that. He said that no matter how bad it was, they should have told us because no matter what, as long as they didn’t tell us, we could imagine it. We kill our own mother.” Her voice is like ice and the elder stares at her in open apprehension before she blinks and the tears drop. The elder quickly pushes the box of tissues towards her. She takes one, folds it, and holds it over her eyes, trying not to smudge her eye pencil. Drops the tissue into the garbage bin and takes a second, for her nose. When she discards of this one she pulls another pillow into her lap and holds them both to her chest. “Sorry.” Her voice is flattened again. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m so sorry this happened to you, you didn’t deserve it. And I’m so sorry you’ve been carrying this around for so long. Take as much time as you need”

Citra nods, head bowed forward. The elder turns her head to look out the window, as a way to give her privacy. They sit together in silence for several minutes, and Citra breathes. Eventually she says “okay”

“Are you sure?” the elder prompts.

“Yes”

“Would you like to speak about your father’s passing?” the elder asks gently.

“I am not sure. I remember his very well. I am not sure”

“We don’t have to”

“I-… okay. No, then,” and Citra’s posture eases slightly. 

“Alright. You said that you don’t speak with your brother, which makes it sound as if you’re estranged”

“We are”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds as though he’s your closest living relative”

“He is,” sadly.

“Are you estranged by your own choice, or did the two of you have a falling out?”

Citra is quieted again, and begins to fumble with her braids. “We drifted apart. We were close when we were children. We started to drift apart when we were teenagers. He had always wanted to go to America, I didn’t really know what I wanted, besides to be with him. Then I became involved with our religion, and Vaas rejected it. He spent all his time with tourists or foreigners. ‘Trying to escape’ he said. When my father… was gone we had a real fight. I wanted to take over; I was good at it, I liked being good at it, I liked people liking me.” She pauses for a few breaths before continuing, as though embarrassed by her admission. “He was so angry. He said I was trying to force him to stay. I said he was trying to force me to leave. I stayed. He left. We haven’t spoken since”

A moment’s break, while they collect their thoughts.

“How long ago was that, do you remember?”

“I think I was… seventeen. Yes, seventeen”

“Wow! And now you are…?”

“Twenty-seven” 

“That’s such a long time to go without seeing a family member”

“I know. I… I miss him. I think of him often. He left… he left me and he didn’t come back. He never came back.” She closes her eyes and turns her head back down.

“It sounds like you’re still quite angry with him”

“Do I? I guess I am… angry... with him for leaving me”

“Yes, he did, and you still miss him”

Citra nods

“Would you want to reconcile? Or do you want closure?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, reconciling would be a kind of closure, but it’s not the only kind. Your relationship was very tumultuous towards the end, and then the end itself was abrupt and messy. You seem to want a definitive resolution, which would be closure. Whether that comes as reconciliation, or something else, I can’t say, that’s up to you”

“Oh. I want to see him again, then” 

“Is it to finally tell him off?”

Citra turns her head very sharply to look at the elder for that. Her expression isn’t quite anger, mostly affront. Then consideration, a touch of shame. She looks away again. “Maybe” 

“I would advise against that”

“Why? You don’t get angry?”

“Yes, I get angry, but I think that the idea of finally getting to tell somebody off is a trap. I think anything that has to do with dwelling on the past is a trap. When most people imagine telling somebody off, it’s usually fuelled by abandonment or neglect. When they were hurt the first time, it was ignored by the person who did it, and now they want two things; revenge, and acknowledgement. They want to hurt the person who hurt them, by making them admit to their past wrongdoings. But in focusing on that past pain, they become consumed by it, and revenge becomes the main motivator. Wanting acknowledgement from someone who has proven to be disrespectful or even malevolent is already risky, but obsessing over revenge… it’ll just make you sick and miserable. Who does it benefit to be in that kind of pain? Who does it benefit to make it the focus of your day-to-day? I don’t think it’s you”

Citra is very silent after that, even her breath is quiet. She’s looking at the elders shoes, unmoving. She lifts her head up slowly, not looking at anything specifically, and her expression is open for the first time. She looks gently bewildered. “I don’t… think I can make myself… not think about him… he is still my brother. He is still my brother”

“Yes, he is. And you want to see him again?”

Nodding.

“Would you like to reach out to him? If you need a meeting place, or a mediator, it could be here”

Citra raises her hand to cover her mouth, and meets the elders eyes before darting her gaze away again. “I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know where he is, usually. When I do it’s not places I can be. It’s not... safe,” she sighs behind her hand. “I think he might be doing it on purpose to spite me”

The elder blinks, “why would he do that? And how? If you don’t speak, that is”

“I think he can read minds. At least mine”

A sigh, the elder takes a few notes and then holds herself still for a few moments, collecting her thoughts. 

“Should I not have mentioned that?” Citra asks timidly.

“You are allowed to say anything you want here. And under confidentiality I cannot tell anybody anything about it without your permission. Unless I believe you pose a serious threat of harm to yourself or somebody else.” Breath. “It’s just that, generally, my way of assuaging anxiety would be to reassure you that other people cannot read minds, but,” she shrugs, and gives an apologetic smile.

“I understand”

“Well, if he can read your mind at least, do you think he would be able to see your urge for a positive relationship? Or… you mentioned spite?”

“Yes. I think he knows I want to see him, and I think he’s denying me that on purpose because he’s still angry with me. It ended very badly. I did hurt him and I-” she cuts herself off with a sharp intake of breath and closes her fist tightly around a handful of braids, jiggles her foot slightly. “I hurt him, too. And I think he hasn’t forgiven me. And I don’t think he ever will”

“Ahh. I see,” the elder pauses to take a few notes and gather thoughts. “Again, we don’t need to go into it if it’s too painful, but would you like to tell me how you hurt him?”

Citra is visibly anxious again. Her shoulders have come up under her ears and she’s leaned forward protectively over the pillows. Both of her hands are clenched into fists. Her face is pensive, and drawn inward consideringly. She flexes her hands a few times before answering. “We fought. Did I tell you that? It was an awful time. Our father had died. Vaas had been injured. I was very confused and afraid. We mostly screamed at each other, but I don’t really remember what either of us said. We wanted to be together, but we wanted to do very different things, and couldn’t-...” She waves her hands in front of her slightly. “I think he called me a whore. And I think that was the last straw for me, because he had never directly insulted me before, and especially not like that. So I tried to... I tried to cut him with a knife.”  
Her face has become increasingly cold as she spoke. As she catches her breath it breaks open into sadness and regret. “I mean-... I did. I did hurt him. I cut him. I could have blinded him, I think. He threw me against a wall and I hit my head. I couldn’t see or stand. When I got up he was gone” 

A soft gasp from the elder, muffled behind her palm. “My God… how terrible… You both could have been really injured… especially if you couldn’t see after… Did you cut his eye?”

Citra nods. “Nearly”

“My God…”

They are both quiet for a long moment, thinking. 

Citra speaks first. “Do you think that I am unforgivable?”

“...No. No I do not think that you are unforgivable. You were young and dealing with a great deal of turmoil, and lashed out destructively. You are forgivable, in my opinion. It is possible for somebody to forgive you, but I don’t think that person should be me”

“...I understand”

The elder takes a moment to read her notes, and make a few more, as well as corrections. Citra pulls more braids over her shoulder and pets along their length as though soothing a frightened animal. 

“Do you still intend to seek contact with your brother?”

“...I think so”

“I see”

“...Do you think that would be unwise?”

The elder thinks over what she will say very carefully before replying, “I am not sure if it is a good or a bad idea yet. I understand and sympathise with your feelings of regret. But as you’ve spoken of your brother and your relationship as it was left, and as it’s progressed, I worry about another fight. Now that you are both adults I would hope that a fight would be avoidable, but if it isn’t… you could hurt each other again. Potentially even worse than the last time.” 

As she had spoken Citra’s face had progressively fallen, becoming more closed and drawing her eyebrows into an increasingly deeper furrow. The elder noticed this and corrected herself, “I am not trying to dissuade you from contacting him, nor am I trying to patronise you about the risks. I would just like to repeat my earlier offer of mediation, and if you do not want me to be present, I would recommend contacting a counsellor who specialises in family dynamics. As long as you have somebody there to keep the peace, just in case”

Citra nods carefully, “okay” 

“A neutral party is best, so there wouldn’t be cause for either of you to feel confronted or trapped, but if it goes poorly, do you have somewhere to seek comfort?”

“...” Citra looks down.

“Your church perhaps? Or a partner”

“...”

“If-...” the elder pauses to consider what it is she means to say, “if it’s not too personal, may I ask, do you enjoy your church? Is it a positive part of your life?”

Citra looks back up, “it is my life”

“Can you seek comfort there?”

“I… in part… For the sake of my people… I am responsible for them… I cannot be seen as weak before them… to lose their confidence…” She lapses into quiet, fixating on a blemish embedded beneath the paint of the wall. 

“And your relationship with God? Or Gods?”

“...Is it not petty…? To bother them for my sake… to ask for what? For what?” She ends asking plaintively, like an anxious child.

The elder speaks softly when she answers “you do not need to ask them, or to bother them directly. Your worship and your devotion are meaningful by virtue of existing, are they not? Can comfort be taken in that? That what you are doing is seeking your and your people's best interests? The be-all end-all of your relationship does not need to be prayer, and prayer does not need to consist solely of asks” 

Citra inhales wetly and the elder realises that she has begun to cry again and glances around for the tissues before seeing that they are already at her side. They sit, one nervous, one trembling gently, face hidden behind her cupped hands. She shudders, and the ends of her earrings clink lightly against her bracelets. 

“I… I am a failure”

“No,” the elder soothes, “you're not. You are a young woman trying her best. You are trying. Your task, like your life, is not over. You have not failed anything”

Citra gathers herself enough to articulate, “I… I am failing them now… I shouldn’t be here… I can’t be here.” Her eyes flit around the room and hands begin to twitch at her sides.

“You fail no one by being here. This is my job”

“You support the weak. I am not weak”

“No!” she exclaims, and catches herself. “No… I do not support the weak. I support the mind”

Citra looks directly into her eyes, unfocused, “only a weak mind would need support”

“Are your people weak?”

She snaps to attention, immediately furious, canines bared in indignation. “How dare you,” she spits, and the light streaming in through the window seems to drain from her surroundings. In the dark she is gently luminous with hatred, like the radiant lakes in the basement of the Chernobyl plant. 

The elder lowers her gaze and raises her palms in supplication. “I meant no disrespect, simply to point out that you function as a support yourself, if not of the mind, then of the spirit, in your community. If the people who turn to you are not weak, then neither are the people who turn to me. To devalue my work in turn disrespects yours, and for the sake of those who depend on me, I cannot allow that”

Silence descends upon the office. A nerve in the hollow of Citra’s orbital socket twitches. Her hands clench into fists and relax, again and again. She closes her eyes with great effort, rolling her head, and only reopens them once her neck has cracked. “I apologise for insulting you,” she grates out.

“Thank you. If I may, are you aware of what you just did?”

“What?” she asks, in a flat tone, with a sullen expression.

“You just used a grounding technique to centre yourself. That was very good. It’s one of the coping mechanisms I was hoping to teach you”

The blankness behind Citra’s eyes softens to mild mollification. “Oh”

“Yes. It is how one supports the mind. Self-soothing is a very important skill for mitigating strong emotional responses. Especially after suffering trauma.”

Citra sharpens again. “Trauma?” She spits, expelling filth. The elder takes a moment to marvel at how this young woman’s temperament reveals itself. She’s maintaining a facade of composure hinging on a cold persona, but beneath it all she’s desperately lacking in stability. Paranoid, edgy, immature, distant, and self-sacrificing. She’s a perfect martyr. She must have been groomed for this young.

“Yes, trauma”

“Do I look like some poor, broken doll?”

“In a way, yes. You do”

Citra’s face has drained of saturation; her complexion blanched to something resembling dead wood. 

“Please allow me to explain,” the elder begins, carefully folding her hands in her lap. “Trauma is often misrepresented among the public, and even among those of us for whom diagnosis and treatment is a profession. Trauma is a negative, formative experience. It alters your responses to the world around you; to people; to yourself. Some people process that by imagining those who have suffered in wars, but a mundane example would be a car accident”

Citra scoffs

“Please, I said.” When Citra holds her tongue the elder continues. “A car accident can temporarily or even permanently alter a person's relationship to cars, traffic, driving, etc. Even just being in proximity to the site of the accident. It can cause nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, and aversions. A similar mundane example would be a rape, which would affect one’s relationship to even their own body, being as it was the site of a violation; an attack. Are you following so far?”

Citra nods. Her face has relaxed some but her arms are pulled about her again.

“I think that we suffer in a time where trauma has been mythologised. Only people who have suffered in a respectable, dramatic, provable way, are allowed to say that they have suffered. And only those of us who for whom it is believed did not deserve it are allowed to say that we have suffered a trauma.” The elder pauses to collect her thoughts, and Citra shifts slightly. “I do not hold you as poor, nor broken. Though in some aspects, you do strongly resemble a doll. Your presentation is extremely curated, but in a way you seem aloof to. You have a veneer of unattainability about you that rejects attempts to probe for depth. I imagine that this is something you perform out of habit, which took hold after the loss of your final remaining family member, though the seed it would grow from was likely planted much earlier. I believe it first started when your father began training you to take over from him, after you expressed interest in his work. I expect it is upon your idea of what his expectations were for both you and himself that you mold your persona, and which your reliance upon was magnified following the loss of your mother as you scrambled for a way to orient your new world. This was similarly worsened again after the separation from your brother, coupled with a terror of abandonment which leads you to reject connection before it can become severed”

Citra looks like she’s been stabbed. The elder tries not to dwell on it.

“In terms of traits you seem aware of and actively encourage, you seem to prize your image as a woman to be desired. Your appearance has been carefully designed and is beautifully artful, with affectations of both wealth and unreality. You emphasise both aspiration and unattainability. I worry about what has happened to you to make you both seeking and avoidant of attention. It is as if what you want is to be admired, but from an extremely specific distance you have full control over. This suggests suffering either a rejection, or a violation of boundaries. There was somebody who did not want you, or did not treat you right. Considering what you’ve told me of your youth’s vulnerability, and your position in the world as a young, beautiful woman, likely both”

Citra is trembling with an expressionless face and piercingly bright eyes. She looks ready to cry, or scream, or throw herself bodily forth and stab her elder to death in her chair. 

“I hope that I don’t need to spell out for you that you have endured trauma, and in turn that you do not believe that I am belittling or disrespecting you. I am merely sharing what I see when I look at you, and I dearly hope you can forgive me for this”

Citra doesn’t react. She hasn’t moved.

“Would you like some water? Or time alone?”

“...Both”

“As you wish,” the elder concedes, and withdraws. In the ensuing solitude Citra keeps herself still as stone. She is served her water and left in peace again with a promise to return in ten minutes. This time she waits for the door to click shut before she crumples in half and begins to weep. She allows herself five full minutes to cry freely and disgustingly, before she begins to pull herself together. She dampens a tissue with the undrunk water and cleans her face the best she can. She dampens a second to hold it to her eyes in hopes the coolness will soothe the puffed redness. Once it warms to her body temperature she removes it, downing the water in deep swallows and moving as close to the window as her seat will allow, leaning her temple alongside the glass. The elder returns as promised and reseats herself.

"How do you feel?"

Citra snorts, "seriously?"

"Yes. Discerning that is a requirement of my job"

"..."

The elder sighs and folds her limbs, "What, if I might ask, were you hoping to get out of coming here?"

"I was obligated to"

"And you would hardly be the first of my assigned patients to ignore that obligation and disappear into the crush. Are you so duty-bound?"

Citra's face twists, and then smiles, "you ask many questions you already know the answer to"

"Of course. That's the job too. My role is supposed to be a guide; I lead you to conclusions you make on your own"

"So unsubtly"

"Would you prefer I manipulate you secretly?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you've had quite enough of that in your life. And I enjoy bluntness"

"I thought this wasn't supposed to be about you"

"That doesn't mean it's never about me. I am still a human being, even when I am acting in your interest. This is still my place of work, you know. You will leave at the end of this appointment, and I will remain here until five, and then I will return to my home, and then I will continue to remember you"

"... How many patients have you had?"

"Oh I don't know anymore. Since starting here, many. For a time when I was an undergrad I worked at an emergency hotline and if we count those, then many more. Perhaps thousands in total"

"And you will still remember me?"

"I remember everyone who asks for my help"

"I haven't asked"

"And yet here you are"

"...Here I am…"

"Tell me about yourself. We have a small window of time left. Speak freely. If you ramble it doesn't matter. How you feel, how you live, what you've done, I will take it"

"I-... This feels like a confessional"

"Oh they don't need to be sins. They usually are, but they don’t need to be"

Deep inhale. “I feel like I am going insane, sometimes,” Citra begins, “I feel like I cannot understand the people around me. I feel like an alien. I feel like I’m missing some vital piece. A code or manual or something. I feel like I can’t go on like this, halfway between woman and beast”

She heaves, “I wish I was cruel. I wish I was cruel enough for people to fear my temper. I want people to be afraid of me. I want to do things that make people afraid of me and I want them to leave me in peace. Vaas was good at that. Nobody made demands of him and when they tried he made sure they could never again. I want that. I want to be untouchable”

“Untouchable, or untouched?”

“Both. Both together. I want to be something different from what I am in a way that is better, or at least more sure”

“You want to be apart from other people”

“Yes” 

“But people need other people”

“I don’t want to need other people anymore”

“We don’t really get a choice in that”

“Then I’ll never be happy”

“Why?”

“Why?! Really?! You ask me why?! I want to be alone! Forever!”

“Yes, I know that. But wouldn’t you be lonely? Aren’t you lonely now?”

“The peace would be worth it”

“Why not seek people that bring you peace?”

“They don’t exist”

“Why not become a person who finds peace in other people?”

“I can’t”

“Why?”

“I tried”

“You tried to bury deep suffering in other people so you wouldn’t have to look at it. You sought distance, not peace”

“Distance is peace is distance. It’s the same. People bring suffering”

“People can bring healing too”

“Where are they, then?”

“Well, isn’t that what I’m supposed to be?”

“Are you? Do you? Am I supposed to find healing in you?”

“No. Not in me. With me. Other people are not vessels”

“I can’t do any more endless work. I can’t do this forever. Will it be like this forever?”

“Like what?”

“Deathless misery”

“No, not at all. But it’s always work. But the work gets easier. Sometimes it even stops being work, for a while”

“Only a while?”

“Better than a permanent ‘never’ if you were to die”

“Will I never be happy if I live? Only passive in toil?”

“Of course you will find a way to be happy, but you can’t be permanently anything. Not happy. But not this wretched, either. It takes work to be a human being, but the reward is that you get to continue being a human being”

“Maybe I don’t want to be human, then”

“What do you want to be?”

“A bird of prey”

“But then who becomes your prey?”

“...”

“Would you feed off your fellows?”

“I will eat men”

“Some people do that without being birds”

“...”

The elder takes a breath. “I used to want to be a wild mare. I was born among flatlands and I wanted to run along the plains, through the tall grass, forever”

“Horses are beasts of burden”

“And birds get hit by planes”

“Maybe I want to get hit by a plane”

“And I wanted to be untameable”

“That sounds nice”

“Doesn’t it?”

Citra hums, “we’ve gone over time”

“It happens”

“What now?”

“Now I ask if you would like to make another appointment. Weekly is standard”

“I-...”

“For the record, I would recommend another appointment”

“Am I that unstable?”

“In a word, yes”

“Oh” 

“Any times in mind?”

**Author's Note:**

> :U 
> 
> feel free to leave comments they make me very happy. catch me using printouts as rolling paper
> 
> im on tumblr @vaas (yeah thats my real url yeah i know)
> 
> dont make me regret giving you that.


End file.
